


To Sip From My Husband's Cup

by cloverfield



Category: Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle
Genre: Inspired by Fanart, M/M, More Research About Liquor Than Expected, Post-Series, Resettling Suwa, Sometimes You Just Want To Kiss Your Husband, domestic husbands, soft and sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21920698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloverfield/pseuds/cloverfield
Summary: “Ne, Kuro-sama – the boys at the brewery have really outdone themselves!”“Imo-jochu isdistilled, not fermented – it’s not beer,” says Kurogane, but he can’t stop the smile as it tweaks his mouth, licking his lips to catch the last drops.Fai waves a dismissive hand, humming happily as he drains the last of his cup. “It’s delicious, however they make it. Pass me your cup, won’t you?”
Relationships: Fay D. Fluorite/Kurogane
Comments: 16
Kudos: 71





	To Sip From My Husband's Cup

**Author's Note:**

  * For [parareve](https://archiveofourown.org/users/parareve/gifts).



> Very much inspired by [this](https://twitter.com/parareve/status/1208911532937170946). Look, it's two am, what _else_ was I supposed to do but write schmoopy kisses by the fireside after seeing it in its entire glory?

Fai’s ears pinken when he blushes. He’s been blushing more of late than Kurogane has ever seen before, fair skin flushing all down his throat and beneath the folds of his yukata, cheeks appling red at the slightest provocation.

(And if Kurogane has been provoking him a little more tonight, _well_. Is it not a man’s right to tease his husband?)

The shochu is helping, certainly; there’s a twinkle in blue eyes that comes from good liquor, and the most recent batch from Suwa’s new distillery is far better than anything Kurogane has tasted for a very long time. It’s impressive to think it’s only taken three years since establishment for the quality of the product to improve so drastically: the smoky sweetness of the steam rises wonderfully from the warm cups of oyuwari they’ve been nursing all night.

“Ne, Kuro-sama – the boys at the brewery have really outdone themselves!”

“Imo-jochu is _distilled_ , not fermented – it’s not beer,” says Kurogane, but he can’t stop the smile as it tweaks his mouth, licking his lips to catch the last drops.

Fai waves a dismissive hand, humming happily as he drains the last of his cup. “It’s delicious, however they make it. Pass me your cup, won’t you?”

Fai stands then, cups in hand and swaying towards the kettle left warming on the hearth, his tabi-clad feet slipping across the tatami with a silky rasp. The warm light of the embers simmers into the creases of his yukata, an umber glow that shimmers on fine threads of embroidery and brightens his hair, golden curls tumbling slack over the slope of his shoulder where they’ve slipped loose from the lazy tie of his ribbon.

Ceramic clinks gently on the stone by the hearthside, Fai kneeling down to take the kettle’s wooden handle, one sleeve slipping loose as he goes. It stays loose as he pours, as he fusses with the jug of shochu, as he pours the liquor into hot water in a cloud of sweet steam; as he stands once more, the elegant curve of his shoulder left bare to the firelight’s warmth and Kurogane’s admiring gaze both.

It’s something wonderful, to see his husband like this - safe and happy and so at peace with himself, so comfortable in his own skin – that Kurogane cannot bring himself to look away; can do little else but push himself up to standing, and cross the matting with bare feet and silent footsteps.

Once shinobi, always shinobi, and Fai startles as Kurogane reaches out to take hold – curls his hand firm around the slope of Fai’s shoulder, slips it smooth on cotton as his fingers stroke down the swell of Fai’s bicep and drag his draping sleeve down beneath the eagerness of Kurogane’s touch.

“Ah, Kuro-sama – I’ll spill the liquor!”

But Fai doesn’t spill it, not even as he shivers, not even as Kurogane’s nose finds the nape of his neck to breathe deep the soft sweet smell of his husband’s hair, tangling into curls as it tumbles where Kurogane presses his mouth to milky skin. Fai’s hands tremble around the cups, oh _yes_ , and his skin warms: another blush blooming upwards, the fine shell of Fai’s ear pinkening all the way up to his hairline, so hot Kurogane can feel it beneath his lips as he smiles – but he does not spill it, not a drop.

“Ah,” says Fai, wobbling a little when Kurogane’s hand finds one bony hip. “Oh-h,” he mumbles, as the drag of a callused palm smooths down the length of his thigh. Kurogane has always thought Fai was more leg than anything else, and he proves it here – it takes a long, slow moment to reach the bend of Fai’s knee, and by the time he does, he can feel the tender weakness that leaves Fai unsteady on his feet.

“You don’t,” starts Fai, and then gasps, and then shudders, head lolling and lips parting as he sways back into Kurogane’s arms. “Mm, you don’t really want more shochu, d-do you?”

It’s a little impressive, for Fai’s voice to still be so level with the tease of Kurogane’s mouth nibbling along the line of his shoulder, biting softly into firm muscle and skin that tastes like ume-blossom soap and the tang of ozone that clings like static from even the barest trace of Fai’s magic. “We shouldn’t waste it,” rumbles Kurogane, letting his words come deep from his chest, pressed hot from his lips to the delicate skin behind Fai’s ear. “It was a gift.”

A tribute, in truth, from a distillery newly-established with the blessing of Suwa’s new lord and priest-consort, but it’s too late at night to talk politics, and there are far more interesting things Kurogane would like to sink his teeth into besides.

“Here,” says Kurogane, and opens his eyes slowly where they’d drift closed; lets his eyelashes sweep against the closeness of Fai’s skin just to feel him shiver. “Let me.”

The hand at Fai’s knee rises slow, cups the fine bones of Fai’s wrist against the broadness of Kurogane’s palm; feels the quick flutter of his pulse as Kurogane’s fingers slide between Fai’s fingers to curl around the cup warming his hand. It takes only the barest pressure to bring that hand gently upwards, to bend Fai’s arm into the angle of his own and bring the cup to lips that part with the best kind of sigh: slow and yielding and utterly rich with longing.

The lip of the cup tips against the open warmth of Fai’s mouth, and he swallows slow and savouring, the roll of his throat something Kurogane feels with the lips trailing over warm, flushed skin. Two sips, three sips, and the shochu is gone – the cup dangling empty in Fai’s hand as Kurogane lets it down, his husband sighing with the pleasure of a warm drink on a cold night as he settles further into Kurogane’s embrace.

“You too,” Fai says throatily, and Kurogane can taste the smokiness of the liquor on his breath, letting his chin rest heavy on Fai’s shoulder as his husband brings the second cup up with a slow and careful hand. The warm curve of smooth ceramic touches Kurogane’s mouth like a kiss, shochu lapping at his tongue sweetly as he swallows, and maybe it’s not three sips of sacred sake before the princess-priestess who married them, but it feels like a vow all the same.

When this cup is empty it trembles from Fai’s fingers, drops carelessly to the floor – bounces once on the thickness of the tatami and is forgotten even as the other cup tumbles down to meet it, Fai’s hands empty and then grasping where they clutch at Kurogane’s sleeves and the man himself turns eagerly in Kurogane’s arms. Fai smiles, scarred fingertips pressed just gently beneath Kurogane’s chin, and then Fai rises up on his toes, golden eyelashes sighing closed with a smile, to give Kurogane a kiss in truth.

Fai tastes like shochu, of course, and something heavy like magic – a spark on his tongue that jumps between their lips, prickling Kurogane’s skin into neediness. His hands are greedy where they rise to cup Fai’s face, palms stroking against the slope of his jaw and curling behind his ears to hold him carefully in place, and Kurogane can’t even think of closing his eyes just yet, not when Fai is so close and so, so beautiful it would be painful to lose sight of him.

The kiss deepens, as their kisses are wont to do; it’s hard for Kurogane to want anything else when kissing Fai, even the chaste, close-mouth kisses Fai drops on his forehead when Kurogane leans down over their futon to wake him in the morning once dawn training is done. He always wants more with Fai – more touches, more kisses, more of the mouth that is so warm beneath the taste of liquor, more of the hands that hold him as though he is something Fai cannot bear to go without.

It’s those hands now that slip from Kurogane’s chin to the folds of his yukata across his chest, cool clever fingers teasing beneath the body-warm silk pressed between them, and the touch of scarred fingertips on bare skin that aches for him makes Kurogane weak in all the ways he loves to be.

Fai’s lips glide and press and pull with gentle insistence, and Kurogane can’t help but give in, give him _more_ , letting his eyes close at last to the warm darkness shadowed by the orange glow of hearthlight as he sinks down into the moment like skin on skin.

His fingers tangle through Fai’s hair, ribbon sloughing loose at the barest touch, and the wave of cornsilk tresses that tumble around them both tickles at Kurogane’s cheek, touches gently the hollows of his wrists where his hands are curved up in supplication still. Fai sighs into his mouth, takes the slow sipping kisses from Kurogane’s lips that are his due with the dreamy pleasure of a man who wants nothing more, and the wave of emotion that rolls down Kurogane’s spine almost brings him to his knees entirely.

“We should,” murmurs Fai, and then loses his words between the stroke of their lips, the way his tongue glides soft into the warmth of Kurogane’s mouth. “Mm _nhh_.”

If they should do anything besides this and only this for the rest of the night, Kurogane doesn’t want to hear it, but he eases up all the same – lets the space between them bloom open for panting breaths that taste of nothing but the warmth of his husband’s mouth, all traces of shochu long kissed clean from those soft, thin lips.

“Bed,” is what Kurogane says, when Fai makes no move to speak – only to press his mouth to Kurogane’s with each sigh he breathes into the small, warm space between them. “Do you want to…?”

“ _Yes_ ,” says Fai, the word throaty and thrumming against Kurogane’s bottom lip, Fai’s teeth catching in a nip that sharpens Kurogane’s attention to a fine point. “The shochu–”

“Will last the night,” finishes Kurogane, drifting a hand down the curve of Fai’s back, following the swell of his thigh and clasp him firmly as he bends his knees and lifts his husband into his arms properly.

“Oh!” The delight in the sound is its own reward, but then Fai laughs, sounding hoarse and kissed-breathless as he goes up, and the arms that come down across Kurogane’s shoulders take loving hold of the folds of his yukata, fingers kneading in an eager grip.

“I suppose it will,” says Fai, and as Kurogane's feet find the familiar path to their waiting futon across the floor, tips his chin and dips down to kiss Kurogane once more.

**Author's Note:**

> shochu = a type of liquor distilled from sweet potato, rice, barley, or cane sugar.  
> imo-jochu = sweet potato shochu; it has a sweet, smoky taste  
> oyuwari = a warm drink of shochu mixed with hot water
> 
> The way Kurogane kisses Fai's neck with a little "~♥" is responsible for everything I just wrote. Parareve made my whole heart tremble with their art, I couldn't help it.


End file.
